Wanderlust
by CircusofMine
Summary: noun; a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world. Max doesn't even know where he's going. He just knows he had to get himself and his partner wartortle, Barney, away from there. Who knows what kind of people they'll meet on the road?
1. Chapter 1

_**8/19**_

This is not a mid-life crisis.

At least, I hope to God it isn't. 25 seems like a pretty young age to have a mid-life crisis, right?

But then again, what else would you call this? If someone I knew up and left town with pretty much nothing, I know what I'd call it. A mid-life crisis. Yep.

Maybe that is what this is – who knows? Maybe I've reached the terrifying apex of my life and this is all just a means of regaining some sense of control before I'm sent barreling downward towards the end.

But, then again, maybe it's not like that at all.

Grandma Carolyn used to tell me about how everyone used to do this in their childhood – leave home, I mean. I would sit on her lap for hours listening to her grand tales of brave young children who left their families in search of adventure. For years they did this. Centuries, even. Now, I'm no scientist, but maybe that could help explain this. If this wanderlust blood is flowing through all our veins, it can't be helped that something like this would eventually happen to someone, right?

Yeah. Probably not a mid-life crisis.

Probably.

* * *

I met Barney when I was 10. My parents brought me to the pet center in a pretty pathetic attempt to hide the fact that they forgot about my birthday the week before. I didn't hold it against them - they forgot it nearly every year. It was kinda nice, actually. Never knowing when your birthday was going to be celebrated definitely made surprise parties exponentially more surprising.

But this year, the big one-oh, my parents decided that the best present they could give me was the Gift of Responsibility. So, off to the adoption center we went to pick up my new friend.

I remember noticing the lights first. They were those florescent bulbs that were trying really hard to convince you that they weren't florescent bulbs; the kind that comes with built-in background music in the form of constant, irritating buzzing. They made the room feel really warm. But not the kind of natural, comforting warm of the sun. No, it was more of a stale, dry warmth.

I didn't have much time to notice the lights or the buzzing or the stale warmth, though, because my 10-year-old brain was quite quickly caught up in what was going on inside the store itself:

Dozens of pets. More different species than I had ever seen in my entire life. More kinds of each species than I had ever seen in my entire life! It was a little bit overwhelming. My dad told me that kids my age used to have to choose between 3 and about how difficult a decision that was.

Sure. Difficult decision my ass.

I spent way longer than I probably should have looking at every different kind of "partner" I could adopt. While my parents discussed prices with the manager, I slowly made my way past the rodents, past the dogs and cats, past the birds and bugs, all the way to the aquatic animals in the back. It was really just a whole bunch of fish. Nothing exciting.

I could feel myself giving up. I had been through every exhibit in the store. I had seen everything there was to see and not liked any of it. The sense of dread seeped its way into my body as I stared blankly into the empty tank in front of me.

"Can I help you?"

I glanced at the worker who was so interested in my dilemma. She seemed nice enough; the dark blue volunteer vest that covered her mint blouse had a smiley face button on it. Something about that was somewhat reassuring. She did seem genuinely concerned that I wasn't having the perfect lifetime-friend-making experience. But, she was a stranger. No talking to strangers. Even if they seem nice and have a smiley face button.

Especially if they seem nice and have a smiley face button.

"No, thanks," I replied, leaning my head back against the glass tank and continuing to stare at the water and absence of fish. This seemed weird to me. What kind of pet store keeps an empty tank? I thought.

The worker chucked. "Well, I'll be around if you need me," she said, making her way toward a different section of the store.

"Ok," I sighed. But what was the point? I was going to get stuck with some lame pet for a friend because I couldn't make up my damn mind about which one I wanted. I could feel the anger begin to rise in my throat - first warming and then boiling hot. Why did I have to ruin this? Why did I always have to ruin everything? Why couldn't I just make a decision?

The dull thud of my fist hitting the glass of the tank snapped me out of my anger-filled trance. Shit! I thought, frantically searching for cracks in the glass. When I was certain that the tank's structural integrity hadn't been compromised, I noticed something odd:

I had assumed the shell in the middle of the tank was decorative. I was quite wrong. Not only was the shell occupied, It was looking at me.

I stared straight back at the mysterious being. Whatever it was, it had the most entrancing eyes: large, deep pupils surrounded by pools of golden-brown amber. They were, to put it in 10-year-old terms, very pretty.

"Mom! Dad!" I yelled. "I think I found my friend!"

* * *

It's getting dark now on this little park bench. Damn, it doesn't feel like I've been here for that long! Crazy how time flies.

I should probably find a place for Barney and me to crash for the night. I don't think I have enough cash for a hotel. Not even one of those cheap ones that are filled with hookers and other such riffraff. I probably have enough for food, though. That's good. Better to be alive and cold than dead of starvation in a warm hotel room. That's for sure.

If I'm being honest, don't really know why I'm writing this. I don't know if anyone will ever read it. I don't know if I'll ever read it again. I think I read once that keeping a journal is healthy and mental stability and some shit. Maybe there's merit to that. I don't know about my mental health, but there really is something about writing everything down that makes it all seem so much more formal. Final.

And who knows why anyone does anything, anyways?


	2. Chapter 2

**_10/11_**

I can't believe it's been over a month since I've written in this thing.

Well, I guess, I can believe it. I've been really busy and haven't had time to write is all.

Ok. That was also a lie. I haven't been "busy."

I've been terrified.

I can see now why people stopped leaving home so long ago. Nothing about this has been fun. I live in constant fear of being mugged, raped, and/or murdered. I don't think I've had a good night sleep in days. Weeks, possibly. I can't begin to imagine a society where this kind of self-inflicted torture was expected of every person. No, not just person: _every 10-year-old child_.

So yeah, needless to say the last month or two of my life hasn't been too exciting. Just a lot of walking. Every now and then a kind stranger pulls over and offers me a ride. When I started this whole thing, I was very picky about whose car I got into. I speculated based on race, gender, build, typical creepiness, even the make and model of the vehicle. I even refused a ride from a soccer mom in a minivan because she only had one kid. _What kind of person buys a minivan for one kid?_ I thought. _Someone who wants the extra room to hide dead bodies in, dummy._

But now, I'd probably accept a ride from just about anyone. Just last week I was walking down Route 67 when a gentleman asked me if I needed a ride. The man had a beard of shaggy, unkempt brown and gray hair that went down well past his navel. His eyes were covered by a dirty pair of what I assume were supposed to be reflective aviator sunglasses. He was smoking, but I doubt it was a cigarette. His car – or I should say van – was all black with the words _Cal's Tattoo Emporium_ spray-painted on both sides. It seemed to automatically click in my head that this was not a ride to get into, but by the time I had made that distinction my right foot was already inside the van. I guess I was so tired from walking that my autopilot body operated without my brain.

And that scares me.

I mainly stick to backroads now. Less traffic. Less crazy people.

Right now, I'm sitting at the counter in the "famous" Route 67 Diner in the grand town of Good Hope, Illinois. Not gonna lie, I kind-of want to meet the person who parked their covered wagon here and decided to name the town "Good Hope." God.

The air here is thick and sweet, yet somehow breathable. The light emanating from the low-hanging ceiling lamps is dark and warm. The silence of the place would be overwhelming if it wasn't for the soft crackle of the AM radio sitting in the corner. The counter in front of me is clean enough, especially for how late it is. There's a family of three - a dad and his young children - sitting in the back corner booth. They're all wearing pajamas and eating ice cream sundaes. A midnight snack. I remember when my family did things like that.

There's only one person working here tonight: a thin, blonde waitress whose name tag read Janett. She leans against the counter with an air of youthfulness, but the lines on her face as she listens to the quiet, crackling radio station reveal an age beyond her years. Her honey hair bounces in tight, short curls all over her head, held back by a blue and white striped bandanna. She's wearing almost no makeup save for a slight stain of pink on her lips. She is, for all intents and purposes, beautiful.

Cheesy name aside, I actually like it here in this little restaurant in Good Hope. It's one of the only places I've seen in this whole trip that allowed Barney to sit next to me. It never occurred to me how much of a problem this was going to be when I started. But we've made do.

I honestly don't know what I would've done without Barney with me. He's stayed beside me, walked every mile, kept me company on every sleepless night. He's stayed with me through all of the terrible things I've done since we left. All the money I've stolen from tips. All the food I've taken from vendors. All the times I've wanted to just give up. I don't think I would've made it this far without Barney.

I don't know if I'd be here at all.

I guess that's why I'm so dumbfounded whenever Barney and I get turned away from a restaurant. Or hotel. Or store. Or any public place. I never saw him as a pet or an animal. He's always been an equal.

I guess in that respect, my ancestors had it spot on: If you're going to go on a death-defying, life-altering journey, it's best not to go alone.


End file.
